I’ve written short stories to accompany my Lone Wolf series, but realized a few years ago, that I needed some prequels to the series. I wrote my first one, The Wall of Time, as my first NaNoWriMo novel in 2007. This novel, Solaris is actually going to be a combination of two novels I’ve started, plus a short piece I wrote for my Fun in Writing group.

There are times when I introduce characters and am totally surprised by them. I admit, this book has already surprised me several times, not only with this scene, but others where Wil reveals a depth of emotions he’s never shown before. Of course, he’s never been in this situation before, and it shakes him to his core. Deciding that he must do something to exact retribution for the women and children who died on Solaris, Wil goes to see an old acquaintance.

The Bloody Orchid specialized in the most brutal urges of sentient beings everywhere. There were other bondage bordellos, but this was the only one with class. Built along the lines of a Roman temple, one could find any sort of perverted need catered too—at an obscenely high price. Wil, who hated the smell and feel of this place, shivered as he walked between the marble pillars. The heavy iron doors swung open and a giant of a man stood there. He was clad only in a loin cloth made from the skins of sentient beings. Wil didn’t examine it too closely, its grim patchwork too distracting.

The gigantic doorman leered at him. “Welcome to the Bloody Orchid, Human. What can we do for you, or to you, this evening?” His voice was ridiculously high and effete, incongruous to his size and bulk.

“I’m here to speak to Santa,” Wil said, smiling.

“Santa doesn’t speak to anyone. Go away.”

“Santa will speak to me.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Human.”

Wil tilted his head to one side, examining the huge doorman with a leer of his own. “Get Santa for me, or we shall see who hurts whom.”

A short, ugly woman with three breasts, came out from behind the counter. She halted in front of Wil, glaring up at him. “You can’t come in here and threaten people, Human. Not for free, that will cost you.

“I threaten no one, Grandmother,” he stated in an insulting tone, the fact the woman was probably forty years younger than he notwithstanding.

Her glare narrowed. “Throw him out, TinTon.”

“Yes, Moema.” He stepped forward, head and shoulders lowered to charge.

“I came to talk to Santa. I asked politely. He made threats, not me. Shall I leave here and tell everyone in the city that Moema of the Bloody Orchid insults customers and turns them away dissatisfied? Trust me when I tell you, I can ruin your reputation in less than a day—after I put your dog down.”

TinTon looked nervous, Moema glared.

“Why do you want Santa?”

“None of your business. I promise, Santa will be very unhappy if you damage me.”

Moema’s fingers flickered. TinTon charged. Wil stepped out of his way, hitting him in the back of the knee with his elbow. The giant crumpled, whimpering.

“He broked my leg, Moema!”

Wil shrugged, stepping out of reach of the big man. He might be down, but he still had the longest arms Wil had seen on a near human. “Santa. Please.”

Moema looked from him to the crumpled form of her guard, and stalked to the desk. “Santa, you have a visitor,” she said sharply into the comunit.

“I don’t see visitors,” came the reply.

“Not even old friends?” Wil said when Moema moved to disconnect.

There was a disturbance upstairs. A door slammed back, hitting the wall. Heavy treads landed on the balcony above, echoing in the great hall. A tall, stately figure appeared hurriedly at the top of the grand stair. Dressed in shimmering red, the color of arterial blood (on second thought, it was blood on a gown) stood Santa. She looked much the same as she had when Wil saw her thirty years ago. Her hair was black, awash with the same blood that soaked her clothing. She wore thirteen inch steel heels that ended in spikes. Her legs were long, shapely and covered in dark red scales. Wil knew those same scales covered most of her body, except for her chest and face, which she kept carefully de-scaled. A pointed tail twitched behind her with what looked like a human eye on the tip.

Shaking blood from her hands, she greeted Wil with a hug and kiss. Fortunately, the blood didn’t come off on him, for which he was grateful. Apparently, it was for show, after all. The eye looked real and he wasn’t terribly surprised, or pleased, when Santa popped it in her mouth. She always said that she liked blue ones best. Wil didn’t look at it closely enough to see the color.

“I’m working, Lone Wolf. What is so important that you must interrupt the show?”

“I apologize, my dear, but there’s been a dust up at the Mining Guild. Perhaps you heard about it.”

Santa frowned, her beautiful, but terrifying face made more so by her expression. TinTon whimpered and drew away from her.

“I heard. I had hoped it was a rumor.”

“It wasn’t. Forty-one people, all women and children, died because of their greed.”

“Do you have names? Of course you do, or you wouldn’t be here. Come up to my room.”

Wil balked slightly. Santa laughed.

“Not the showroom, darling. My quarters. Nothing more disturbing than a shrunken head, I promise. Laughing, she led the way.

Wil followed, mindful of her tail. It had a temper and had smacked him more than once in the past. He’d come to be on friendlier terms with it the last time they met, but he wasn’t sure it was happy to be interrupted during a show. Santa’s tail was a mean bitch.

The room she led him to was strangely feminine and completely opposite her in every way. Frilly and pink, it reminded Wil of a little girl’s quarters, not that of one of the most vicious torturers in the galaxy. Santa had worked with him for a time, extracting secrets from their targets. She was retired now, putting on torture shows here at the Bloody Orchid.

“Drink?”

“Thanks, no. I’m working.”

She made a face, her black lips pulling back to reveal extremely sharp, long fangs—not an affectation, completely real. “You only came to see me on a job? I think my feelings should be hurt.”

“Be fair, Santa. Last time I saw you, your tail tried to skewer me and you threatened to bite my head off.”

“I was expecting,” she replied, pouring dark liquid into a glass. It bubbled and fizzled, smoking slightly.

Wil’s eyes narrowed. “A—baby?”

She waved it away. “We involuntarily spawn every ten years. I ate it. Nasty little bugger. What do you need from me?”

“The names I give you, they come with a price.”

“Yours or mine?”

“You have the entertainment value. I need whatever information you extract. Everything, even the tiniest detail. The usual contract, with the additional stipulation that it must be within the next six weeks and no one can trace this back to you or me.”

“That’s easy, darling. Six weeks isn’t long.”

“I’ve never known you to take more than three days to get what you wanted.”

“True. When I’m done, what then?”

“You can pleasure yourself as you like. Is that payment enough?”

“Depends on my targets.”

He told her. Santa’s eyes widened. “Council? Hmm. They drove my people from their home, built their wretched base upon it and banished us to the Cold Netherworlds. Of course, that was a thousand years ago…. Why them? Why now?”

“Because they’ve hurt some friends of mine and they are responsible for killing my goddaughter—and my—daughter.” He fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them. “You know me. I’m not the stick around fatherly type, but she and her mother both died. My goddaughter, her sister and mother died. My friends lost their families for another man’s greed.”

“And you lost something that you loved.” Santa wiped his tears with her long fingers. The wicked black nails rasped over his beard, tenderly caressing. “I have known you forever, Lone Wolf, yet I have never seen you cry. I will do this for you, not because of the pleasure it will give me, nor because of the information you desire, but because their actions put a hole in your soul. Right here.” She touched his chest, just above his heart. “It’s deep and black. They have killed a part of you. For that, they will suffer.” She kissed him tenderly, listening as he told her the names and locations of her victims.

Elveric tries to defend himself, but it’s too late. Itza has all but killed him. His treachery has failed him. He hasn’t got a prayer of beating her now.

Screaming, he dragged himself from her grasp, but Itza had now the scent of blood and the barbaric nature her people had fought so long to control, had the lust of battle. She could no more control herself than a wind can be pinned down. Roaring like a wild beast, she attacked Elveric. Whirling frenetically, she spun toward him, tail lashing him from all directions at once. Her feet moved with a wild dance of death none of her race had seen in centuries. Claws sang through the air, ripping and tearing Elveric’s unprotected flesh, flaying it from his bones.

Eyes burning blood red, Itza bore down on him in a frenzy of hatred. This was payment for her mother and father, cousins, aunts, uncles, anyone who had fallen prey to the bandits over the years. If she could not punish them all, by the gods and all that was holy, she could devour this beast, rid the world of him!

Elveric screamed, babbled, begged for mercy. Itza couldn’t hear him. The blood pounded in her ears and fury blinded her. She was completely focused on Elveric, but had anyone else gotten into her line of attack, she would probably have killed them too. She was unstoppable, unpredictable, a conflagration of maniacal madness which could only be defused by burning itself completely out, extinguished in blood.

With a final rush, Itza launched herself at Elveric, spinning in a pirouette, claws extended, balancing carefully with her tail whipping around her. A lunge at Elveric ended his cries, claws embedded deeply in his throat. Teeth bared, a roar of victory rent the air, ending in a gurgle as she buried her fangs in Elveric’s throat, ripping his carotid artery. His lifeless body thudded to the ground with Itza still on him, breathless, fury abated.

Without a sound, the bandits dropped their weapons and fled. Whatever Elveric’s plan might have been for revenge, it did not happen. None of them wanted to face the wrath of that insane cat woman! Their flight was short, for closing in on them from the surrounding woods were men from the other villages. No one had noticed their approach in the gloaming. All attention had been focused on the battle.

Pitchforks and hoes do not seem very impressive weapons, but in the hands of men fighting for their lives and protection of their families, they can be insuperable. It was a short conflict and a bloody one. When all was done, not a single bandit survived. Their bodies were tied to horses and dragged through the countryside, left beside the roads—a message to anyone who even considered trespassing their territory again.

Itza did not know any of this. Once the battle rage left her, she fell face first to the ground, completely exhausted. Uncle Brev and Orris stepped forward. With the help of Crex, they carried her home. Aunt Anasafe cleaned her wounds and dressed her in a clean robe.

The evening of the third day, Itza woke, sore but rested. She rose carefully, her ribs and back throbbing painfully. With care, she made her way to the kitchen. No one was there, but she heard voices outside the front door. Slowly, impeded by the protests of her body, she walked across the house and leaned in the open doorway.

Her uncle and brother were working on the damaged porch with Crex and several other former bandits. They stopped speaking when she approached, looking at her silently. She saw a vast mixture of expressions among them. In her uncle’s face, pride. Orris’s held a look of awe. Some of the bandits regarded her stoically, having seen worse in their lives, but others showed her fear, their eyes wide.

A shy smile flickered over her lips, faltering and dying gradually as memories flashed through her mind. She had woken with the vague feeling of surrealism, as if her dreams strove to be real. Nightmarish images had plagued her as she slept and she had hoped to rid herself of them when she woke. There was nothing which could make the dreams go away, they were real. She had killed brutally, barbarically.

Disgusted with herself, Itza stumbled out the door, down the broken steps and across the yard. The ground was still churned and rutted by the volfboar stampede. The distance to the family shrine seemed to increase rather than decrease. Thinking she would never reach it, she redoubled her effort, changing to a clumsy run. Gasping with effort, she dragged herself up the steps, falling heavily to the floor before the shrine. Weeping bitterly, she prayed for forgiveness, vowing never to raise her hand in anger against another.

As she lay there weeping, Aunt Anasafe entered quietly, kneeling beside her once more. Strong, gentle hands helped Itza pull herself upright. Aunt Anasafe held Itza in her arms, rocking her like a child, crooning softly as she vented her sorrow and self-loathing. Hot tears fell from her eyes, soaking her clothing. Anasafe didn’t let go and didn’t leave. Eventually, the tears stopped, replaced by dry, heaving sobs.

“Why?” It was hardly adequate, but it was the only question her mind could frame coherently.

“You know the story of god’s whirlwind?”

Itza nodded, breath coming in shuddering gasps.

God’s whirlwind was a legend among her people. It told of a time when war was common and all races preyed upon one another. One day a god appeared. He was huge, ugly, fearsome. He gave the world a portion of himself, instilling them all with purpose. Rather than end the fighting, he gave them the intelligence and the means to kill one another more efficiently; then he left.

Among her race, there was a girl nearly the same age as she. In a time of terrible peril, she had slain an entire army in a blind rage. Though mortally wounded, she did not stop until all the enemy were dead, their bodies ripped apart. She killed them with her bare hands.

“What has this to do with me?” Itza’s tone was bitter.

“It has everything to do with you, little one,” her aunt used the term fondly. “Did you think it only a legend? For each legend and myth there is a reality. This was the god’s gift to you, something which only a few of our people can do. It has been many years since a girl with god’s whirlwind came along. Use it wisely and well—always to protect, or the gift may leave you.”

She kissed her niece softly on the head and rose to leave. Itza took her aunt’s hand lovingly in her own.

“Thank you, Aunt, you have given me much to think on.”

“Our village is safe because of you, our people everywhere protected by your actions. It will, gods willing, be a long time before we are threatened as we were by Elveric and his ruffians. It is because of you and only you.”

Itza sat quietly as her aunt walked out of the building, heading back to the house to prepare the next meal. Itza sat for some time, knees hugged to her chest, chin resting on them. Quietly, in silent prayer, she lit a stick of incense and sank once more to her knees.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “thank you for the gift you have given me.”

Without another word, she rose and walked slowly back to the house. From that day forth, their village was at peace, their people unharmed by outsiders. Wherever she went, she was honored as the woman upon whom god’s justice lay.

A new challenge has been struck and the answer comes back in the form of Vilfort’s head in a bag, his tearful son carrying it. Itza has her doubts, but knows she must do this to protect her family and friends.

Finally, she too stood and walked out of the shrine. The sun was sinking on the horizon, illuminating the sky in shades of rose, crimson, lavender, azure tinged with gold. Despite her fear, the sight did her good and she felt a little of the despair lift.

The fighting area had been marked out again in the same place as before. Crex had taken his position on one side of the ring. The same old farmer was back where he had been. Elveric did not seem to mind the fact that Crex was there, even if he was no longer his boss. He didn’t care, he was so confident that he could beat her. It was apparent in the way he carried himself that he was not afraid. Itza tried to put on the same demeanor, determined not to show her fear.

Elveric was already in the ring, hands bound with cloth as before, broad chest bare, massive arms flexing as he balanced on his toes, shadow boxing as he waited for her. He still favored his left leg and she could see bruises on his torso from her blows. He would be slower as a result, she hoped she could use that to her advantage. Despite his injuries, he still was a formidable opponent and had a reach half again as long as hers.

Walking confidently to the ring, she entered to the cheering of her people. Elveric’s men took up a half hearted jeering, but she saw their faces. What threats had he made, what demands? Would they attack her people even if Elveric lost? It was possible. Perhaps, instead, they would honor the deal and leave quietly. Some would cause trouble, she could see it in their eyes. Others would be no problem. That was up to the militia, her order of business was to kill Elveric expeditiously, before he could kill her.

Turning slowly, Elveric noticed her and smiled. It was a cold, mirthless smile, like a crocodile on ice. He was evil, heartless, wicked, devious. She would have to be very careful. Crex stepped between them as the two combatants met in the middle of the ring. Looking from Elveric to Itza, he examined each carefully before speaking.

“We all know why we are here,” he began quietly. “The deal is,” he spoke more loudly so that all could hear him, “if Itza wins, Elveric’s men will leave this village alone forever. If Elveric wins, his men get the spoils of the town, down to the least crumb of food. The fight is to the death, no holds barred, no rules to break except it must be a clean kill.” He looked at Elveric pointedly when he said this.

“A clean kill,” he repeated, staring Elveric down.

The bandit leader glared at his former compatriot and spit in Crex’s face. Crex wiped the offending spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand, blank expression on his face. The look in his eyes was murderous, but he said nothing.

“Take your places!” The old farmer cried loudly.

Itza and Elveric went to opposite corners, waiting for the signal. Crex took an improvised flag, held it above his head for a few seconds, then dropped it. Snatching it up from the ground, he leapt out of the way.

Elveric ran, bellowing like a bullock, at Itza, who stood her ground quietly. Brutal, meaty fists sought her, but missed as she stepped aside. Elveric faltered, turned, digging deep troughs in the turf with his hobnailed boots. Itza prepared for his next rush, crouching low, fists close to her chest, waiting.

Elveric ran blindly at her again, roaring loudly, swinging his arms wide, trying anything to land a blow on her. Instead of stepping aside, she ran at him full tilt, silent as death. A foot or so away from him, she ducked low, sticking out her leg. Elveric saw it in time, stumbling to one side. Itza shifted her weight quickly and clipped Elveric’s sore leg with her foot. She had the satisfaction of hearing the kneecap pop out of place. Elveric grabbed his leg, bellowing in pain.

Before he could rise, she sprang forward, grappling for a hold. Summoning his wits, Elveric’s huge fist shot out, catching her in the midsection. With a whoosh of breath, Itza doubled up, faltering, nearly falling to the ground.

Using her as a support, Elveric levered himself upward, pushing her face down. He ground her face in the turf, slamming her head repeatedly with his fist. Itza’s hands grasped the grass, pulling her to a kneeling position. Suddenly, Elveric howled in pain, blood gushing from half a dozen wounds. Until now, Itza had not used her best natural weapon, but in a desperate attempt to save herself, the vestigial claws her people rarely used, sprang out of their own accord. Seven inches of razor sharp bone ripped into Elveric’s body.

Another bandit comes to Itza, telling her to surrender. His son is being held captive and Elveric has sent him to negotiate. She tells him to go to Elveric and tell him that she will agree to fight him again—to the death.

“If you don’t, your son dies. Is that what you want?”

“He’ll kill me!”

“Then you’ll go to your rest knowing you did what you could and I’ll raise your boy after I beat Elveric. It’s the best deal you’re likely to get. Elveric won’t give you the same promise, will he?”

Shaking his head sadly and heavily, Vilfort slunk away to talk to Elveric. She did not expect to see the man again, but hoped he’d live long enough to see his boy freed. Meanwhile, she went to find her uncle and some of the other elders of the village. Preparations must be made to protect the rest of the people. A short while later, she had spoken to them all, and waited for their reply. Her uncle spoke up first.

“You’ve made up your mind already to fight him?”

She nodded. “Yes, I see no other option.”

“We should send to the outlying villages for help.”

Onrich, one of the elders said. He was an old man of an undisclosed age. The village grandparents remembered him from their youth, he was old even then.

Uncle Brev frowned and shook his head. “He’ll be watching the roads and kill anyone who tries to leave.”

“How do you know?” Onrich was angry at being contradicted.

“Because it’s exactly what I’d do,” Brev replied, pinching his lower lip with his fingers while he thought. “There might be a way,” he whispered. “Yes, that might just work!”

He rose and the others followed him with their eyes until he was out of sight. He was heading toward the marketplace. A few minutes later, he returned, a broad smile on his lips.

“What did you do?” Onrich demanded.

“I happened to remember that Oot has been training some birds to fly places and come back. Well, his brothers in the other villages have been doing the same. He’s sending them messages now. Who will notice a few birds flying over?” He chuckled.

There was a growing disturbance on the far side of the village, near the cornfields. Itza rose and the men followed her as she ran over to see what was wrong. A little boy of about Bastia’s age stood in the road, a heavy, bloody sack in his hands, weeping uncontrollably. He looked fine other than being filthy.

Itza knelt beside him and took the gruesome package from him. She had a good idea what it contained. This must be Vilfort’s son and this was another message from Elveric. The little boy snuffled and wiped his nose on a grime crusted sleeve.

“Be ye head woman?”

“Yes.”

“I’s got a message from Elveric. My Da spoke to himself about yer fight. Elveric said yer answer be in the bag with…. with….” He burst into tears again.

Brev had taken the bag away and set it down beneath a tree in front of the elders. It contained Vilfort’s severed head with two words carved into the flesh, “I accept.”

Itza fought down the bile rising in her throat, motioning for it to be put away.

“Bury him.”

She gagged, stumbling back to her house where she slammed the door to her room and wept bitterly for awhile. Then she went to the family shrine and prayed for guidance and strength in her upcoming battle. Her main concern was to keep her people safe.

There was a light step on the porch outside the shrine and Aunt Anasafe was standing in the doorway behind her. She took off her shoes and knelt beside Itza in front of the shrine, lighting a stick of aromatic incense. Her hand crept over, taking Itza’s in a firm and comforting grip. Itza felt love from her aunt, flowing into her, making her strong.

“It will be all right, Itza. You can do this, you are much stronger than you know.” Her smile was tinged with tears. “There is nothing I can tell you that will help, nothing I can do which will make this go away, but my love, my prayers go with you, Itza.” She rose and left, turning to run up the path back to the house.

Itza sat a few more minutes, thinking. She did not know how to pray about this, did not know who to ask or what to ask for. She had so much on her heart, it was impossible to frame it into words. All that came to the fore was, “Help me.” No more.